One With None
by Hywar
Summary: "Dude, what the hell man? I just wanted to hang out with you, I didn't want to 'become one' or whatever." Russia realizes America's feeling too late, and is left more alone then ever. USUK, end game RusAme. Rated for swearing.
1. Chapter 1

Ivan Braginski had never been fond of loneliness. He had grown up with two sisters, one who attached herself to him in such a way that it made _him_ feel uncomfortable, and the other who seemed to harbor dreams of her own independence.

He had made it his goal to never be alone, and more importantly, to never have to venture out of his own home to find what he needed. He had built his country up, endured hard times and then harder times, before finally reaching his own utopia. His friends, all sharing a house with he, and he taking on the role as their guardian and support system. It was everything he had dreamed about with his older sister, and now, he was certain he would not be left alone. After all, he had learned throughout the years. Now all the countries that stayed with him were deemed friends, comrades. He would give them reassuring pats on the back, and smile as they shook with happiness. He would joke with them the same way he had seen other nations do with young America, laughing his fond laugh and smiling his childish smile as he came upon behind Latvia.

"When are you going to grow, comrade Latvia?" He quipped, his hands reaching up to ruffle the others hair, pressing down on his head. Latvia froze for a moment, and Russia smiled down at him, waiting for a response. Finally, Latvia's eyes darted up to meet Russia and he gave a slight smile, his eyes wide. He darted away, claiming he needed to find Estonia. Everything seemed to go wonderfully, and Russia smiled despite the work required to maintain his life.

Then came 1991. The Soviet Union dissolved, and took Russia's new-found friends with it. By the coming of 1992, he was as alone as ever, and the paperwork seemed unchanged1. For a while, he expected visits. He had treated all the other countries so nicely; surely they could not want to leave him! Days passed, months came and went, and the only person who dared knock at Russia's door was Belarus, whom he pointedly ignored, despite how lonely he was becoming.

He took to buying more vodka, though he had little time to drink it, and would often sign papers and talk to his boss over the phone while taking swig after swig. He did not bother with cups or shot glasses, favoring the far more direct approach the bottle offered, and when done, would simply deposit the bottle on the floor, not caring if it smashed apart on the way down.

He tried to avoid the hazy memories drinking would drag up, passing out when the images started to filter their way through his brain. He could not hide from all of them, though, and soon he found that despite the warmth that spread though out his body, vodka seemed content to harm him, just as his friends had.

"_Russia! Hey, Russia!" Russia turned his head, purple eyes searching the snowy white horizon before finally landing upon a crop of sunny blonde hair and slightly tanned skin running towards him. One silver brow raised, he fully turned, waiting for the young nation to catch up to him._

_ Finally, he did, panting slightly. Russia looked him over. He looked better, even with his hair in slight disarray. His clothes were no longer ripped and tattered, although they did look worn, and his bright blue eyes no longer seemed caged._

"_Hey man, sorry for stopping you. I mean, it's cold as _hell_ out here, and stopping probably only makes that worse; I mean, aren't you freezing? I guess maybe not, I mean you're always wearing that big coat and scarf, so maybe you don't get cold, but I do and I mean still-" _

"_What is it you needed, Amerika?" Russia cut the boy off. He noticed America's voice had broken, and wondered how England felt._

"_Oh, ah, right, sorry." America reached a hand up behind him, scratching the back of his neck and further ruffling his hair. A slight shiver seemed to pass through the boy, and for a moment, Russia considered stepping closer. He shrugged off the desire, knowing America had just managed to prove himself as a nation, and would hardly like anyone to think of him as needing assistance. Russia remembered feeling the very same, when he was young._

"_Anyway, I just, um, just wanted to say thanks, you know?" Russia could have sworn a faint blush blotted America's cheeks. "I mean, I know you didn't really pick a side__2__, or anything, but still. You helped out a ton, man. Without you, I might still be drinking tea with stuffy-old England, and-"_

"_America," Russia interjected again, "Enough. I did not trade to help you win independence. I traded to better my own country." Starting to turn away, Russia felt a slight tug at his coat. Although barely felt, it was enough to stop him._

"_Hey! Look, I know you didn't help just to help me. But I mean…you took me seriously, you know? I mean, France, I think he really just wanted to stick it to England, but you," America paused for a moment, tongue darting out to lick his chapped lips, "you took me seriously. You thought I could become something."_

Russia frowned against the mouth of the bottle, his tongue shrinking back in distaste. Relationships among countries changed seemingly daily, it was true, but Russia had almost forgotten about having anything but mutual dislike exchanged between him and America.

He had known America for quite a while. England tried to keep the then-colony separated from the world, but with Russia forming colonies, it was only inevitable the two would eventually stumble upon each other. He recalled seeing the bright yellow hair for the first time, baby blue eyes always turned skyward, though whether that was because he was too short to see people or because he truly loved the sky, Russia had never figured out. He had tan skin and radiated warmth, and was everything Russia had ever wanted in a land. This was a boy, he knew, that would know little about the hardships in life. General Winter would not knock at his door; nations would not turn away from his childish innocence. They would see him as cute and endearing; they would seek out ways to make his life easier. And looking at the spark in the colony's eyes, he could tell that his very being would soon cause his own destruction. The freedom held in those eyes could not be tamed and captured, despite what England dreamed.

Russia fell asleep, the neck of the bottle slipping from his fingers and crashing quietly against the carpet.

It was four in the morning when Russia woke up, hand automatically reaching up so that he might take another swig. It was to his immediate disappointment when said hand came up empty, and the overpowering smell of vodka filled his nostrils. Peering down, he could see the bottle had broken apart, letting the clear liquid escape into the carpet. It was his last bottle, he recalled, and in order to get more he would need to go out to the store. The idea was off-putting, to say the least.

Still, Russia heaved himself up, black boots crunching against the fragments of glass. He pulled his scarf a little tighter around his neck, not even bothering to stop in the mirror and check his appearance. It would be a quick stop to the store; nothing more, nothing less. He would grab a few bottles of vodka and be on his way.

He tucked his head down as he opened the front door, wind whipping his face and pelting snow against him. He winced as a few pieces got into his eyes, but trudged forwards, slamming the unlocked door behind him. No one would dare rob him, he knew.

It was a quick drive to the store, given the fact that Russia had a perchance for driving well above the speed limit. His car screeched to a stop as he parked in front of the seemingly deserted store, and twenty minutes after he had left the warmth of his home he found himself in the warmth of the store.

Fluorescent lights beat down at him, helping the heat of the store melt away the snow in his hair. He made his way toward the side of the store, where he knew he would find the alcohol, only to stop midway.

A small rack of flowers stared at him, colors arranged in a seemingly random fashion. Many of them seemed to be dead or dying, their petals browned and falling off. This didn't bother him, for the bouquet he was looking for, directly in the middle, was neither dead nor dying. Bright yellow petals screamed of life, screamed to Russia. He felt himself step forward, close enough to dart a gloved hand out to brush gently against their smooth tips, fingers grasping the tip.

"_Russia! Hey, Russia!" Again, Russia found himself stopping, turning his eyes from the white walls of the conference hall to look at the blonde hair directly below him. His blue eyes were covered by glasses now, a recent acquisition that even Russia had to admit made the nation look far older. America had grown significantly since he had become a country, and was taller than many other older countries. Not as tall as Russia yet, Russia thought, smirking. _

"_Yes, America? What do you want now?" He had just finished meeting with the young nation; what could he have needed that was not mentioned in the aforementioned time?_

"_I wanted to say thanks. Again." A blush crept over America's face, and Russia stared at him, confused. _

"_For what?"_

"_For…for the land, man. For selling me Alaska." Russia sighed, tired._

"_America," he started, "I did not sell the land for you. It was of no use to me, and I wanted the money. That is all there is to it.__3__."_

"_Oh! I mean, uh, of course you didn't sell it to me just…just because, I mean. I know. But still. You could have sold it to someone else, you know?" America's eyes had widened, and Russia could have sworn he saw mild disappointment etched in them._

Before Russia knew it, his fingers had moved down along the petals, brushing along the rough stems, encased in plastic. His hold tightened, and he pulled the bouquet out from the display case, the soft crinkle of plastic echoing throughout the store. Russia didn't need to look behind him to know the shopkeeper was staring at him; no doubt watching with more than confusion as the large nation seemed to caress the yellow flowers.

Vodka forgotten, Russia headed toward the cash register, paying no mind to the rushed greeting offered to him. Fishing his hands into his pocket, his hand scraped upon a few rubles. He deposited them upon the counter and took his leave, not bothering to wait for his change or receipt. The shopkeeper's yells grew distant as Russia hid the flowers within his coat, protecting them from the storm. He laid them on the passenger seat of his car and took off, hand already reaching for his phone.

Dialing a familiar number, his boss' secretary greeted him. He did not return the affection, instead barking out his reason for calling.

"I would like a ticket to America."

"_Russia! Hey, Russia!" Another sigh passed Russia's lips, but he stopped, nonetheless, turning to find the blonde hair he expected._

"_Yes, America?" Another meeting has just ended, and Russia was the last to file out of the room. He had expected to ride the elevator down alone, but yet here was America, pushing himself off the wall he had been leaning on. Had he been waiting here? No, thought Russia, he had probably been making a phone call to his boss; this conference had been held in America, after all._

"_I just-"_

"_Wanted to thank me?" Russia chuckled, for this seemed to be the only reason the nation would ever stop the European. America looked bewildered, his glasses tipping down the bridge of his nose._

"_What? No, man. What would I thank you for? You know what, never mind. I just…I wanted to ask if you wanted to do something, you know? I mean, everyone else has already left, so I figured you might not have any plans and we could hang out-"_

"_America," Russia cut off. "Do not ramble. And the answer is no," Russia looked down at the country, who seemed to waiver slightly. "Do not get me wrong, America. My house is just very full at the moment. Eventually, all will become one with me. But not now, America."_

_ If America looked confused before, now he was absolutely baffled. His eyes_ _widened, seeming to quiver slightly before a look of pure anger filled them, darkening the sky blue color._

"_Dude, what the hell man? I just wanted to hang out with you, I didn't want to 'become one' or whatever. Goddamn it, Ivan, you're so dense. America's never going to 'become one' with a _communist_ nation, America's never going to 'become one' with _anyone._"_

_ Russia opened his mouth, aiming to backtrack, only to find that America had pushed past him, entering the elevator alone and slamming down on the close-door button. It took Russia a moment to realize America had called him by his human name, and even longer to realize that he could move, could grab the jacket of the nation. By that time, America was long gone._

The plane ride to Virginia was a long one, but eventually the voices of the captain blared on the speaker, informing the passengers that they would be landing soon and should remain seated and fasten their seatbelts. Russia hadn't gotten up at all, choosing instead to spend him time either gazing out the window at the blue skies, or grazing the sunflowers petals, as gentle as he knew how.

He hadn't brought any luggage with him besides his carry on, and thus quickly made his way off the plane and into the parking lot. A man in a suit was carrying a sign; 'Ivan Braginski' painted onto it. Russia made his way over to him, quickly relaying an address and hoping America was at his Virginia home, and not one of his many others spread throughout his states.

He asked the driver to stop about a mile before the house, and though the driver protested; it was just beginning to rain, he claimed, and it really wasn't the time to be going on a stroll, a quick glare from Russia forced him to pull over and unlock the doors. Russia departed, thanking the man, and the man slid a card from his pocket into Russia's waiting hand.

The walk was long, mostly because Russia wasn't in any huge hurry to arrive. It would be just his luck to reach the house and find that America wasn't staying there, forcing him to call the driver back. Rain pelted his face, his silver hair growing weighted. A few strands made their way down his forehead and pecked at his eyes, small daggers threatening him throughout his walk. He held the sunflowers as close to his chest as he could, but was dismayed to find that some of the petals still fell off, carried away by the breeze.

Finally, Russia arrived at the mansion, happiness filling him as he realized that there were, in fact, cars in the driveway. Two cars, actually. The happiness faded, and Russia stiffened. Would America still welcome him in if he were to disrupt a meeting? He swiftly walked past the car, willing himself not to look into it. He didn't want to see whose it was, he just wanted to knock on the door and see that bright yellow hair.

As his hand raised up, ready to pound on the oak door, voices drifted through the cracks.

"Hey, come on, I said I was sorry!" This was America's voice, Russia knew. What was he sorry for? Was he in trouble? Russia felt his fist come closer to the door, contemplating just throwing it open.

"You git! You don't even know what you're apologizing for!" Russia stiffened. Only one person called America a git. That wasn't possible. This wasn't possible.

"I'm sorry I called your cooking terrible," America's voice, this time softer, more weighted. Russia had to press his ear to the door, waiting with baited breath. Silence met him, and the flowers he had been clutching were lowered.

"Damn, England," Finally, America's voice came back, louder than ever. Russia reeled back. "If I had known _that _was waiting for me, I would have apologized a lot sooner!"

"Oh, just shut up, you twat. Now get back here. And so help me, if you call my cooking bad once more-" England was cut off, and this time Russia didn't stay through the silence. The flowers fell from his hand into a puddle on the floor, petals falling off the whole way down. Russia felt water on his face, and prayed it was just the rain, pooling near his eyes. He turned his back away from the door, walking past the two cars parked in the driveway and disappearing out of sight.

_Russia had waited after the meeting; he had been the last to leave. Exiting the room, he paused for a moment, expecting to be called to turn around. When no voice came, he turned of his own will, searching for a speck of blonde along the white walls. He sighed as he found none, his mind recollecting the meeting he had just left. The Second World War had just ended, they had won. The Allies all should have been happy. Instead…instead, America looked at him with contempt. With anger. He had left the room before Russia, but after many other nations. The room was almost empty, and Russia looked up when he noticed that America was standing in front of the door, his face turned towards Russia._

"_You know," America whispered, "I thought you really believed in me. I thought you thought I could become something on my own. But, you're just like all the others, aren't you, Russia? You never had any faith in me at all. You were just waiting for me to fall."_

Authors note:

So yeah. I teeter back and forth between RussAme and USUK. In my head cannon, America has had a crush on Russia since his colonial days, when Russia was one of the few nations that openly helped him. Russia was too blind to see it, as he was a strong nation and had quite a few countries already under his wing. Also in my head cannon, America leaves his house the next morning to get the paper and finds the flowers. Russia, why are you so slow!

And below are just some history references. They're not really needed to get the story, but they are sort of present.

1 The Soviet Union was made up of numerous countries including Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. On December 8, 1991, the presidents of Russia, Ukraine and Belarus signed the Belavezha Accords. This claimed the Soviet Union was dissolved. The President of the USSR did not formally resign until December 25, 1991, and the Supreme Soviet was dissolved the next day. Many Soviet organizations, including the Soviet Army, remained in place through the early months of 1992. After the Soviet Union was dissolved, Russia was recognized as its legal successor. Russia voluntarily accepted Soviet foreign debt and the Russian federation took on the Soviet Union's rights and obligations.

2 Although Catherine II had Russia remain officially neutral during the American Revolution, she tended to favor the American colonists. She provided as much as she could without compromising Russia's neutrality, and many American's were comforted by the fact that Russia was not on Britain's side. Russia continued to trade with America throughout the Revolutionary war, providing them with a market as well as supplies needed to survive. Catherine II believed America gaining independence would be ideal for Russia, as it would provide an opportunity to expand commerce; not only would America be able to freely trade with Russia, Britain would have to turn to other countries (such as Russia) to supply them with resources they had previously taken from American colonies.

3 The Alaskan Purchase was made via a treaty between the United States and Russia in 1867. Russia was, at the time, having financial problems and feared losing Alaska in a future conflict (mainly to the British). The Tsar asked both Britain and America, but Britain expressed little interest. Thus, Russia offered the territory to America (this was in 1859) no deal was made due to the American Civil War breaking out. It wasn't until 1867 negotiations once more took place, and after an all-night session, a treaty was signed at four A.M. on March 30, 1867. Alaska was sold for $7.2 million, much to America's joy, who currently considered friendship with Russia of the utmost importance.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 A

The scent of Earl Grey tea permeated the air, covering the close-knit duo like a well-worn blanket. The T.V. blared in front of them, announcing all the worlds' news to an unhearing audience.

"Alfred." An accented voice cut off the newscaster, his figure suddenly blurring, frozen in time. Alfred turned his head, cocking it to the side as he took in the sight of his boyfriend, Arthur Kirkland, currently pressed up against him. His arm, currently draped loosely around the man's shoulders, pulled back a little so that his hand could reach over and give a slight squeeze.

"Yeah, babe?" Alfred's arm was quickly swatted away, a faint blush coloring the Englishman's cheeks.

"You know I hate it when you call me that," Arthur huffed, crossing his arms in front of him. Alfred laughed, pulling his head down to brush his lips against red-stained cheeks, a smile on his face.

"Aw, come on. You know you love me." Uncrossing his arms, Arthur reached over to give his boyfriend a playful push, unable to hide his lips slight upturn. His smile grew as Alfred's arm reached back around, tugging the smaller man against him. The remote, once balanced on Arthur's knee, tumbled down, hitting the floor with an ignored clack.

"Mmmm…is there somethin' you wanted, Artie?"

"Don't call me that, git. I wanted to know if you were hungry, but at this point I'm not sure if you deserve anything." Arthur made a mild attempt at pulling away, Alfred's grip unconsciously strong, before falling back against his boyfriend's side with a huff.

"Aw, man, you know me to well! What're we gettin'?" Alfred's eyes had lit up, sparkling with childish enthusiasm.

"I was going to make something," The older man mumbled. A moment of silence passed, Alfred staring at Arthur obliviously, as if waiting for him to finish his thought. Finally, he realized that Arthur had been serious, and a bubble of laughter slipped between his lips. Before he knew it, that bubble had expanded and popped, causing his body to shake. His arm fell away from Arthur, instead moving to beat against his leg, his other hand reaching up to grip the frame of his glasses, steadying them on his face. Arthur's face grew angry, his good mood quickly fowled.

"And just what are you laughing at, you bloody git?"

"Aha, nothing, Artie. It's just, well; wouldn't we be better off ordering out or something? I mean, really…"

Arthur pushed himself up and off the couch, barely avoiding crushing the remote beneath his foot. His arms wrapped themselves around his chest once more, his eyes forming slits as he glared down at Alfred. Without a word, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

"Artie, wait!" Alfred's plea came a moment too late, bouncing off the shut door. The television announcer continued to stare at him, his mouth hung open in eternal laughter.

RusAmeRusAmeRusAme

Alfred sat on the couch for a while, his hands resting on his lap, his glasses tipping off the bridge of his nose. Every once in a while he would glance up at the bedroom door, hoping that he might see it open. It never did.

A man of action, Alfred had never felt more uncomfortable. Making up his mind, he jerked off the couch. If Arthur was going to be a pissy girl about this, he would just have to be the macho man. The hero. He smiled at the thought, and new found excitement filled him. His excitement was short lived, however, as just as he was rounding the couch the door opened and a rather pissed Arthur stepped out. He all but ignored Alfred, who stood with his mouth agape, veering towards the kitchen.

"Artie!" Head out of the clouds, Alfred reached towards the older man, fingers tracing over his shape. Arthur seemed unphased, continuing towards the open door to the kitchen.

"Arthur, wait!" Now the man stopped, paused for but a moment. His head started to turn towards Alfred, and then as though it realized what it was doing stopped, halting at an odd, unnatural angle.

"I'm sorry," Alfred glanced down, a blush now gracing his cheeks.

"Not now, America." Arthur's head turned away, his feet starting to lift up again.

"Hey, come on, I said I was sorry!" Alfred's voice reached a new pitch, gaining volume.

"You git! You don't even know what you're apologizing for!"

"I'm sorry I called your cooking terrible," The volume that had just presented itself faded out, giving Alfred's words a far more weighted tone. Arthur turned back towards the boy, hand lifting up to rest on the frame of the door. He studied his former charge, eyes tracing over the youthful build.

Alfred's breath caught when suddenly he realized Arthur had left his post, striding towards him with confidence before latching on and capturing his lips. He let out a choke of surprise before relaxing into the kiss, arms wrapping around his boyfriend's waist.

Still, he felt as though this kiss was…different. He relinquished control to Arthur, not bothering to fight like he normally would, and though Arthur's arms were snaked around his neck they felt more like weights then anything. He moved his lips when Arthur started getting impatient, and took in a grateful breath when he found himself free. Arthur's face was flushed, his eyes a fraction hazy.

"Damn, England," he joked, laughing to himself, "If I had known that was waiting for me, I would have apologized a lot sooner!"

"Oh, just shut up, you twat. Now get back here. And so help me, if you call my cooking terrible once more-" Arthur's sentence was cut off by Alfred, who dipped his head down to brush lightly against his boyfriends. It still felt wrong, but Alfred passed it off on the recent fight. By tonight everything would be forgotten and all would be well.

"I'll tell you what," Arthur whispered, pulling Alfred down and resting their foreheads together.

"Yeah?"

"Are you still hungry?" Alfred let out a bark of laughter.

"But of course!"

"Why don't you go get one of your greasy pizzas? My treat?" Alfred's eyes widened, looking down at Arthur as though he had been given the biggest Christmas gift.

"Yeah!" Quickly pulling away, Alfred fist pumped and darted out the door, ignoring his boyfriend's light chuckled of laughter.

Once outside, Alfred became all-too-aware of the rough pellets of water cascading from the sky. He quickly tucked his head in, pressing it as close to his chest as possible, in a vain effort to prevent the small deformed daggers from piercing his eye.

It was then he noticed the patch of smashed yellow on his doorstep. Flowers? He bent down, his finger grazing the water-logged petals. Sunflowers. His fingers traced the silky petals absentmindly, ignoring the water currently pouring down his back and through his jacket. There was only one person he knew liked sunflowers. Well, two actually. But Ukraine was too busy with her own country to have time to come visit him. That left one. Russia. But…why would Russia come to his house and leave a bouquet of sunflowers at his doorstep? It seemed an odd thing to do, even for someone as crazy as the Russian in question.

His fingers traced down the stems, wrapping around the clear plastic holding the flowers together. At least he didn't have to worry about watering them.

Standing up, Alfred dusted himself off, pulling the flowers closer to his chest as he made his way towards his car. Maybe it was a joke. Did Russia do jokes? He didn't remember any, but that didn't mean anything. He hadn't been around for particularly long, anyway. Still…if it was some sort of joke, wouldn't the man have stuck around?

Forehead creasing as he drew his eyes together, Alfred immediately became wary. He hadn't paid much mind to the violet-eyed nation last meeting. Well, he had, but not in his normal way. Alfred couldn't remember the last time a World Meeting had come to pass when he hadn't stopped to talk to Russia for some reason or another. Normally to thank him for something he'd deny doing. Then, there was that one time he had tried…asking him out. That had failed. Horribly. Alfred squirmed uncomfortable as he recalled. As a powerful nation, it was becoming increasingly difficult to find friends in his fellow nations. They all wanted something; whether that be money, power, or his fall. None of them were interested in getting to know Alfred; they all just wanted America to pay attention to them. He thought he had found a common thread with Russia, whose power was also a cause for concern. Then that big idiot just had to go and ruin in, taking far too much pride in his fucking communism.

The last time Alfred had seen him, he had all but yelled at the older man. Had told him off, finally. After all these years. He met up with England later that night, and the rest was…well, history.

Perhaps he had managed to piss Russia off, being so blunt? His mind crossed the option out. If he were mad at someone, the last thing he'd do would be leave his favorite type of flowers at their doorstep. What kind of warning was that?

His hand reached forward, pulling open the car door. Throwing the flowers onto the passage seat, he settled in. Maybe Russia was still around. If he could find him, he could settle this debate once and for all. Nodding to himself, Alfred drove off, mind focused on where Russia would have gone.

As it turned out, he didn't have to look very far. Not five minutes after Alfred pulled out of his driveway the large Russian came into view, scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. Alfred slowed the car down, cruising alongside the downtrodden man.

Rolling the passage window down, Alfred turned his head towards the man oblivious man.

"Yo, Ivan!" He called out, one hand lifting off the wheel to cup against his mouth. Ivan's head jerked up, and he took in Alfred with a startled gaze. Pace quickening, the nation quickly made his way down the street. Alfred tsked, speeding up for a moment before reasoning better and pulling the car over. Ignoring the beep the car gave as he removed his seatbelt; Alfred reached over for the sunflowers and pulled himself out of the car.

"Yo, Ivan, slow down!" Stepping away from the car, Alfred quickly saw that Ivan was not, in fact, stopping, but rather quickening his pace. Following suit, Alfred began to jog after the man, stopping when he got close enough to reach out and grab his shoulder.

"Dude, man, slow down already. You dropped these by my place. You could have knocked, you know? Whadya need?"

If Alfred noticed the harsh way Ivan suddenly tensed, he didn't show it. Ivan hastily attempted to shove the boy's hand off of his arm, only to be once more reminded of the immense strength the young nation acquired. Alfred's forehead scrunched, lines of confusion marring his tan skin, his grip tightening.

"Dude, are you really in that much of a hurry? I mean, if you are, that's cool. I can give you a ride, you know? It'll be much faster than walking. Not to mention its raining and-"

"Alfred." Ivan cut off. Now, Alfred looked surprised. The two hadn't been on first-name basis since the start of the cold war; and even prior to, he could count on one hand the number of times Ivan had freely called him by his human name. "What is it you needed? I image you have much better things to be doing, da?"

Alfred released his grip; his hand reaching back to comb threw his hair, nimbly avoiding Nantucket.

"Ah, well, I mean…I was just on my way out. Arthur wanted me to pick up some pizza." The violet-eyed man remained stoic, about to turn away, when he caught the barest of whispers.

"Did you…Did you wanna come, Ivan? I mean you don't have to, but if you wanted to get out of the rain and stuff…" Bright red stained the American's cheeks; his head darted down in a vain attempt to hide said fact from the taller nation. Giving a slight nod, Ivan turned towards the still-running vehicle, his hand reaching out to intertwine with Alfred's.

"Yes, I suppose it would be nice to get out of the rain for a while."

RusAmeRusAmeRusAme

AN:

Um..so yeah. This was supposed to be a one-shot, but I really wanted to leave it as a RusAme story. There should be one more chapter after this, just to conclude everything.


	3. Chapter 3

Authors note:

Oh my gosh, guys, I'm so sorry this took me so long to finish. Truth be told, I had a three page draft of this last chapter sitting on my laptop for months, but I couldn't think of a satisfactory way of ending it. I finally just scrapped the whole thing and banged this one out in a night. Overall, I'm alright with it. It's not my best work, but I'm happy to have finally completed this thing. Well, read and enjoy, and thanks for sticking with me for so long!

The car ride proved uneventful, filled with awkward silence. Ivan refused to break contact, staring at Alfred throughout the entire trip, despite the younger man's constant shifting and occasional glares. Alfred could have leapt for joy when he saw the familiar pizza joint come into view, turning in to the nearest parking spot and unlocking the car doors.

His arm was grabbed as he unbuckled, one hand already attempting to push the car door open. He felt himself get pulled back into the car, the door clicking shut as turned to face the violet-eyed nation with hesitance. The two men merely stared at each other, Ivan's grip strong, holding the other in place. Alfred felt his mouth go dry as he parted his lips. He wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say, but by God he was going to say _something_. He couldn't have Russia knowing how uncomfortable he was right now, how even though he had a boyfriend and even though they were both happy (and they were happy, they couldn't _not _be happy, not after everyone telling them that they would make the perfect couple) the mere touch of Ivan's skin against him made his skin _burn_. Burn like he had wanted, when he and Arthur had first gotten together. Burn, the same way it had each meeting he and Ivan had had in the past, although then he had passed it off as the temperature difference between the two, or the pain of the blows they often exchanged finally getting to him. He couldn't let the Russian know anything about the very un-heroic thoughts Alfred was growing increasingly fond of.

Ivan's hand slipped off his wrist, and Alfred clung to the thought that this was just some sort of weird Russian custom. He knew it wasn't, though. His country had Russian-Americans, and he knew nothing of this sort of ritual. Still, the faint blush on the older man's face and the faltering of his usual child-like smirk comforted Alfred. Perhaps he had simply not been thinking clearly, he hadn't realized that what he was doing was weird and could only lead to weird things and-

Alfred's minds rambling was cut off and short circuited, and at first he wondered if he had been speaking the entire time and Ivan had just gotten tired of it and decided to shut him up, and maybe this _was_ just a weird Russian ritual. If it was, Ivan must practice a lot, because _god-damn_ his tongue was brushing against all the right places, having easily gained entrance considering Alfred could barely control his body.

This wasn't what a hero was supposed to do. His mind came back at an alarming rate; reflexes making his head shoot back and hit the driver's side window. _Oh god oh god oh god_, his mind was racing and his heart was pounding and he was fairly certain Ivan could hear it, he had to hear it, it was so loud and the car was so small and empty and everything echoed.

Ivan's hand brushed against his cheek, softer than ever before. Alfred hadn't even known the man could be so gentle, let alone towards him. He let his eyes wander only to find himself face to face with the man, his hand having moved to cup his face and force them into eye contact. Ivan's eyes were hazy and diluted, some form of awareness hidden deep within them. He was inching closer, and Alfred wanted to let him just _come, it wasn't cheating if he didn't start it, if he didn't encourage it, and he wasn't encouraging it he just..wasn't _stopping _it_.

A shrill buzzing set off; making use of the car's echoing quality. For a moment Alfred just blinked, certain that this was all just some sort of dream he had gotten from eating Arthur's cooking last night, and now his alarm clock was sounding. But then…why wasn't he waking up, and why was Ivan looking so startled at him and _why was he moving away, oh god, please don't move away_. Alfred's hand shot out to encircle the other's wrist, keeping him in place while his other hand reached into his jacket pocket, fishing out a phone he still hadn't fully realized was ringing yet.

The caller I.D. read '_Artie 3_' and his once-racing heart stopped. He hadn't done anything wrong, he reassured himself, picking up the phone. His eyes never once strayed from Russia, who seemed more focused on the fingers capturing his wrist.

"Yo, Britain, what's wrong?" He was amazed at how calm his voice sounded, even and boisterous.

"Bloody hell, Alfred, how long does it take you to get a pizza – did you just call me Britain?" Arthur's voice was far less calm; Alfred could practically picture the vein on his forehead bulging out, his face getting red with unmasked anger. His fingers tightened around Ivan's wrist subconsciously, his head turning down and staring at the contact _he _had initiated. Did friends do that? He was touchy-feely, did that make it okay?

"Make what okay, Alfred?" Oh god, that wasn't meant to be said aloud, and now England sounded angry _and _perplexed, and he was certainly realizing that something was going on, that Alfred was _cheat_-the phone was grabbed out of his hand, ripped away from his ear and placed against the face of the Russian beside him.

"Do not worry, Britain. Alfred is fine and with me."

"With – he was supposed to be getting pizza! Why on Earth would he be with you, Russia?"

"Well, because he offered me a ride of course."

"Offered you a – now you listen here, Russia! I don't know what your game is, but leave Alfred be. It's time for this stupid little argument of yours to stop," Arthur spat out. A small smirk overcame Russia's features, a knowing smile that Alfred knew from past experience to fear. He reached back for the phone only to have Ivan pull back, his smile growing larger still.

"Oh, believe me, Britain. I intend to do just that," the phone clicked off and landed with a thud on the floor of the backseat.

Alfred didn't get the chance to ask what Britain had said before Ivan was grabbing him, one hand on his neck pulling him forward until their faces met almost painfully, the other undoing his seatbelt and dragging him onto Ivan's lap. Ivan was tugging at his lower lip, tongue greedily demanding entrance, given to him in the form of a moan. Alfred's mind was on fire, darting between need and want and fear and understanding. This was wrong, it was wrong and it was cheating, but if it was so wrong then why did it feel so right and good? He was happily dating Arthur, so why did it hurt so much to think about pushing away from this kiss?

Russia, feeling Alfred grow tense and unresponsive, pulled back. His hands still rested on the younger man's hips, holding their bodies against one another, while his eyes stared, making contacting the moment Alfred opened his own.

"This is wrong." Alfred's voice was weak and hesitant, his statement more of a question. Ivan couldn't help but chuckle, his grip tightening.

"Britain said it is time for us to stop fighting. We are simply making amends. Reestablishing our relationship, yes?"

"That's not all this is, Russia."

"You want more." Russia stated, one hand leaving its perch to trace up Alfred's torso, lazily making its way to his cheek.

"I've wanted more, you know that. But you…you were you, and I've moved on."

"You have not moved on, comrade. If you had, you never would have stopped for me. You would have continued driving, most probably laughing at my misfortune. You would be home with him by now, eating pizza and exchanging meaningless glances and gestures. If you had moved on, you would not have returned my kiss, even for a moment. You would not still be on my lap." The entire time Russia spoke Alfred slowly lowered his head, resting it on the other's shoulder. The hand that previously sat on his cheek moved to his back, rubbing circles around his shoulder blades.

For a short while, silence filled the car.

"This isn't fair to him." Alfred finally responded, whispering quietly into Ivan's shoulder.

"No, but it has not been." Again, silence sat between the two as Alfred turned his head to look into Ivan's eyes, searching for some sort of answer, a clue as to what he was supposed to do.

"I wish to try to make this work, Alfred. However, I understand your doubts. Let us get your pizza and return you home. Forget this has happened." Alfred's eyes widened as he immediately realized what Ivan had taken his silence to mean. Rejection.

"I don't doubt you, Ivan. I just wish we hadn't started something like this on these terms. I might not love Arthur, but I sure as hell don't want to hurt him like this."

"You would be hurting him more by lying, no?"

"Yeah, I mean, I guess so…"

"Then I do not see what the problem is.

"Christ, Ivan, it's not that simple –"

"It is simple if you choose to make it so,"

"I can't just break up with him and start dating you, it'll kill him!"

"Then do not tell him. There is no reason not to take this slow, America."

"You don't think he'll be a bit suspicious, me going out to meet you and then coming home and promptly breaking up with him?"

"He will see what he wants to see."

"God, sometimes I wonder how your mind works. And they say I'm the insensitive one…"

"You are the one dating a man you harbor no love for," Ivan pointed out.

"Yeah, alright, point taken." Alfred paused a moment, his tongue darting out to lick at his lips. "Alright, look. If we're gonna do this, we're doing it right." He clambered off Ivan's lap, plopping back down in his own seat. "And that means no touching or anything while I'm still with Arthur."

"But-"

"I'll talk to him tonight. For now, we're just two friends picking up pizza. After this is all behind us, if you still want to make this work…"

"I will, Alfred." Ivan promised, his hand reaching out of its own accord to grip his shoulders, tightening comfortingly.

"Well, alright then," Alfred chuckled, a light blush dusting his cheeks as he pulled the car door open, stepping out into the light rain. Ivan was right. His actions might not have been totally heroic, but that didn't mean he couldn't start now. Maybe he could make this work.

Ivan stepped out of the car, leaning against the door frame as he pulled his jacket against his frame. He headed towards the pizza parlor, rushing to get into the warm, dry shop.

"Yo, Ivan!" Alfred called, smirking as the taller man stopped and turned back. "Thanks. For the flowers and everything," and for once, Ivan simply smiled and chuckled.

"You are welcome, Alfred."


End file.
